I don't know why my son was born dead. When I so wished him to live he arrived dead. Maybe he sensed my poverty or my poverty killed him. You should've seen me dancing before his birth! It even seemed he too danced when he felt me near! Touching his ear, I pestered him with caresses of both hands. He stretched with joy. He kicked from the womb of my beloved Candelaria as though leaping through the walls of his own home...But now as you see, he was stillborn and his pain is my pain. It's why I've been getting drunk since the Fiesta of San Isidro. I also want to die. For I lived to feel his kicks and he turned me good. Ask the people passing about what's been happening. Everyone will remark of me. They would certainly tell you that Cirilo Corazon was good from early on, and that he wished for a child. But as you can see, my son has died and died without a birth. And, this is far worse than if I had died. I think, see, that children are the fresh shoots of life; they spring from the branches of a life full of suffering; we must return so we can continue living. Maldicion! But when before the birth of our offshoots is truncated... See, look, it is no joke. Death really does kill.
My dear Candelaria said it: "I'm giving birth to death. Cold death licks me with cold flames." Poor dear, she could not have imagined it. She would just laugh when I played with our son. Awaiting only that he grow up amid the squash crops. Believe me. The sun is witness to the dream that we weave on the ranch while listening to the chirping of birds in the orange trees. But now you see yourself, happiness was not meant for those who suffer.
The day we married, everything was flowering. Even the smile of my Candelaria was scented with Jacaranda. She was so pretty that heart burned to see her eyes. "Now, we will bring a child to life," I whispered to her secretly as we left the church. "Now, yes," she said to me. With her words spoken, "I felt my blood running inside of me as though I were a mountain, because when it rains water falls from the mountain's slopes like I myself fell at that moment.
"Look, Cirilo,-- Timoteo, my great uncle told me--. When the white specks in a woman's eyes are tenderly blue as water, as Candelaria has in the soft of her eyes, then she is a pure woman." And it's true, in my Candelaria's black pupils there was a sweet honey color. But... Now what? What's she going to do now? I guess he hasn't noticed that my Candelaria's eyes have shut forever. She can't see due to having given birth to death and not life.... She doesn't see since.
Since then I'm no good. Liquor soothes my heart, but I've gone bad now. I don't work or sleep; I just want to die.
That's why I get drunk along with the moon and the sun, without closing my eyes, so as not to see what is inside of all this pain....Ah, if my son Damian (I planned to name his Damian), if he had been born things would be different. We'd walk hand in hand, pulling seed from the earth or watching white and black clouds in the sky. Then I'd be dying of happiness, more alive than ever, well, above all, I'd have hope in hand. Ah! Cursed was the day I lost the will to live! This is what I had to say to San Isidro. "What's wrong? What were you thinking by bringing me a flood of tears instead of water? You know very well that the water of tears can only be harvested from great pains. You know that tears only nourish thorns even on sweet soil." This is why I no longer like San Isidro, el labrador. I may be mistaken. He may not be to blame, but I no longer care for him. You too would do it. I know because poverty has taught me that there is no greater rage than to have been born of one's pain. And my Candelaria knew it before her death and I also know it before my own death: when life grows black, so black that it can never again be made white even with rose detergent, you are disgraced, betrayed and eventually killed by it. Say what you like but this is how it is to be disgraced by God...
The nurse leaned over the patient to take his pulse.
--Why does this crazy one speak so much, doctor?
The doctor glanced strangely, straightened his glasses and smiled indifferently:
--It surprises me you don't know. That's how the insane behave when their reasoning returns to them...., they would prefer to die.
My dear Candelaria said it: "I'm giving birth to death. Cold death licks me with cold flames." Poor dear, she could not have imagined it. She would just laugh when I played with our son. Awaiting only that he grow up amid the squash crops. Believe me. The sun is witness to the dream that we weave on the ranch while listening to the chirping of birds in the orange trees. But now you see yourself, happiness was not meant for those who suffer.
The day we married, everything was flowering. Even the smile of my Candelaria was scented with Jacaranda. She was so pretty that heart burned to see her eyes. "Now, we will bring a child to life," I whispered to her secretly as we left the church. "Now, yes," she said to me. With her words spoken, "I felt my blood running inside of me as though I were a mountain, because when it rains water falls from the mountain's slopes like I myself fell at that moment.
"Look, Cirilo,-- Timoteo, my great uncle told me--. When the white specks in a woman's eyes are tenderly blue as water, as Candelaria has in the soft of her eyes, then she is a pure woman." And it's true, in my Candelaria's black pupils there was a sweet honey color. But... Now what? What's she going to do now? I guess he hasn't noticed that my Candelaria's eyes have shut forever. She can't see due to having given birth to death and not life.... She doesn't see since.
Since then I'm no good. Liquor soothes my heart, but I've gone bad now. I don't work or sleep; I just want to die.
That's why I get drunk along with the moon and the sun, without closing my eyes, so as not to see what is inside of all this pain....Ah, if my son Damian (I planned to name his Damian), if he had been born things would be different. We'd walk hand in hand, pulling seed from the earth or watching white and black clouds in the sky. Then I'd be dying of happiness, more alive than ever, well, above all, I'd have hope in hand. Ah! Cursed was the day I lost the will to live! This is what I had to say to San Isidro. "What's wrong? What were you thinking by bringing me a flood of tears instead of water? You know very well that the water of tears can only be harvested from great pains. You know that tears only nourish thorns even on sweet soil." This is why I no longer like San Isidro, el labrador. I may be mistaken. He may not be to blame, but I no longer care for him. You too would do it. I know because poverty has taught me that there is no greater rage than to have been born of one's pain. And my Candelaria knew it before her death and I also know it before my own death: when life grows black, so black that it can never again be made white even with rose detergent, you are disgraced, betrayed and eventually killed by it. Say what you like but this is how it is to be disgraced by God...
The nurse leaned over the patient to take his pulse.
--Why does this crazy one speak so much, doctor?
The doctor glanced strangely, straightened his glasses and smiled indifferently:
--It surprises me you don't know. That's how the insane behave when their reasoning returns to them...., they would prefer to die.
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